


New York Minutes

by airy_nothing



Category: Glee
Genre: Klaine Advent, Multi, Tumblr: klaineadvent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:45:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 6,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airy_nothing/pseuds/airy_nothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Klaine Advent 2013. Loosely-connected pieces following Kurt and Blaine as they finally share college life in New York. The boys aren't living together (not yet), but they're loving and learning all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moving In

**Author's Note:**

> Klaine Advent Prompt: "artist"

Blaine and Sam's apartment has actual  _rooms,_ with walls and doors . . . and locks, Kurt notices, remembering how Santana would rifle through his drawers back when she first arrived in Bushwick. This place is tiny in comparison—it's no airy haven like the one Kurt calls home, the place he and Rachel once orbited by bike, the  _briiing briiing_ of Rachel's bell echoing off the cavernous ceiling as they’d circled the floor.

No, this apartment feels more like a  _com_ partment, like it’s a tiny drawer pulled open among thousands, and Kurt is reminded of the card catalog at the library, back when he’d stand alongside his mother while she searched. He remembers flipping through cards with his index finger, marveling at how all that could possibly be  _known_  was organized there. 

At least, that’s how he’d felt at the time.

Kurt places the last of the boxes he’s helped lug up the stairs—one marked “Crafting Supplies”—with the others in Blaine’s room. He brushes his hands on his jeans and tries to stifle the pang of jealousy he feels as he glances out the window, reminded of how easily it is that Blaine will call  _Manhattan_  home. 

Back in the cramped kitchen, Sam’s on the phone ordering pizza, and Blaine is pulling plates out of a box, each one wrapped neatly in newspaper and sealed with tape. Kurt leans against the doorjamb and watches unseen as Blaine cuts the tape, then rinses and dries the dish before placing it in the cabinet. Sam gets off the phone and pulls a paper-covered cup from the same box, clearly wanting to help. He tears the wrapper off and unceremoniously sticks the cup in another cabinet, before turning to repeat the process. Without a word Blaine takes the cup out, rinses it, then puts it back. Kurt smiles. It’s clear who’s going to be in charge around here.

Kurt clambers onto a barstool as Sam and Blaine continue to unpack, and the space is soon filled with lively chatter as Kurt describes some of the NYADA faculty's quirks, while Sam proudly relates the details of the modeling work he has scheduled for the week. Blaine nods at the right moments, he smiles and laughs—but Kurt can tell he's nervous, so he offers encouragingly, "It's going to seem really chaotic these first weeks, but you'll get used to it all." 

"Don't worry about me," Blaine says, smiling like a loon. "I can't wait!" 

Kurt hums in response.

 

The three of them have pizza for lunch. They sit at the couch, where Blaine perches on the edge of his seat, plate on his lap, cutting his pizza with a fork and knife. "Dude," Sam says to his best friend. "You're supposed to  _fold_  it, man. That's how they do it here." 

_"Sam,"_ is all Blaine says in response, before he lifts his fork again and places a cut morsel of pizza carefully in his mouth.

They eat in silence, and Kurt wonders what Blaine's first day at NYADA will really be like. Up until now, his mind has conjured simple images of Blaine at his side as they walk the grounds together. Or grab coffee in between classes. Or burst into song. They've both been waiting  _forever_  for this—how can it not be fabulous? He munches on pizza and mumbles more to himself then the other two boys, "It takes a while to fit in," as a purple piano on fire flickers in his mind. Kurt turns to Blaine, who looks at him questioningly at first—but then replies warmly, "Well, I'm lucky to have the perfect tour guide!"

Sam says suddenly, "Why don't we go to campus, bro? You can show us where your classes are, kind of run through your schedule?"

"Yeah," Blaine says, exhaling. "I'd love that." He jumps up to get his schedule, which is fixed to the fridge with a McKinley High magnet. He takes his key off the hook that's hanging near the door. He stops and looks around then, uncertain. 

Kurt supplies, "Got your farecard?"

Blaine shakes his head and laughs. He says, "I'm sure this will all be routine soon," and Kurt wonders at this boy-artist who orchestrated a takeover of Dalton for a song and dance involving three show choirs, who made rose petals drop from a domed ceiling, who took one moment from the past and enshrined it—shared it, with practically all of Ohio. 

Kurt reaches for Blaine's hand. "I may know some shortcuts," he says, as they head out to the humid street, on this last day before everything is new.


	2. Reverberation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine goes to his first NYADA class: it's Carmen Tibideaux's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaine Advent prompt: "belong"

As Blaine sits patiently in the NYADA auditorium, the nervous murmuring of his classmates in the acoustics of this space grows louder as the minutes pass. He can feel the vibrations on his skin, and they feel like _doubt._  

He takes out his schedule to give himself something to do—he's not buying. He's been there, done that.

Blaine chuckles, actually, at the thought of himself in a lab coat, sitting along the bed's edge as he gingerly holds a patient's hand. (This time it's a little girl about to go into surgery . . . for _something_. It's all very _serious_ , and the girl hangs on his every word, her tiny hands softly squeezing his as he soothes her anxiety. He tells the girl there's a fifty percent chance she'll survive and as he explains how that's _so_ much better than forty percent, he feels the eyes of Dr. Ross in the doorway behind him . . . but in his mind Dr. Ross is young, exactly like he was on TV, and Blaine is _older,_ a man now, and, well. Blaine— _Dr. Anderson_ that is—can feel the sparks bounding across the room. They flicker in the girl's eyes. What was he just telling her again?)

The auditorium door snapping shut brings him back to now, where he sits in the front row as _the_ Carmen Tibideaux struts across the floor, purple and gold silk billowing around her. She's royalty here. Dean Tibideaux locks eyes with him and raises an eyebrow, as if challenging him. Blaine squirms under her gaze, but then calms himself. He doesn't care that he doesn't quite know how he fits in yet, that he doesn't feel like he _belongs_ —she can stare all she wants. He's not going to hide how happy he is to finally _be_ here, or how happy he was when, just ten minutes ago, he left Kurt in the hallway. That just ten minutes ago, he got to _kiss_ Kurt. In the hallway. At NYADA. In _New York._

"Excited, are we, Mr. Anderson?" Dean Tibideaux wonders aloud. "I assure you, all NYADA freshman are, on this first day, in this first class." She pauses, scanning the room as she adds dramatically, "Just because you are _here,_ doesn't mean you'll still _be_ here a week from now. That's because every day is a competition. Every day there is someone who will work harder than you. Some of those people will be friends," she says, making her way across the stage. "Some of them will be more." 

Blaine swears that Dean Tibideaux just shot a glance his way.  

He doesn't care, he thinks confidently. He's ready. Back when he'd told the New Directions that he'd won more singing competitions than anyone, he wasn't kidding. Of course, he may have left out that he was only in middle school when he earned some of those trophies. Or that Sylvia McIntyre lost her voice just before taking the stage at the start of the Central Ohio Singing Competition finals, Intermediate Division . . .

". . . who I'm assuming is ready to perform." The dean is definitely looking at him now. "Mr. Anderson?" she asks.

That's all the prompting Blaine needs, as he jumps up from his seat and hops forward. _Of course he's ready,_ he thinks, his resonant voice already filling the air, and there's way more than a fifty percent chance he's nailing this thing. 

 


	3. Lofty Goals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's TV marathon night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaine Advent prompt: "consume"

Blaine sits between Sam and Kurt on the sofa, his body tucked in on itself, arms wrapped around his calves. He’s grimacing, but can’t peel his eyes away from the TV. It’s completely dark in the loft aside from the flickering screen, where zombies consume a young couple. The lovers, still alive, keep their eyes fixed on each other, even as flesh is torn from their limbs. 

As the scene unfolds all three boys speak over one another: “Aargh!” “No—just _no._ ” “I hate the both of you.”

That gets Blaine’s attention. He turns toward Kurt, who still has a blanket draped over his head. “That’s not helping, is it,” he says. “You can still see everything, can’t you.” Blaine shifts, trying to find Kurt’s eyes behind burgundy chenille. 

Kurt’s voice, muffled by the blanket, says, “It’s what I can _hear_ that’s the problem!”

“But we’re only halfway through Season 2!” exclaims Sam, who reaches for the remote. 

“Okay,” Blaine says, wanting to make the best of this weeknight time. It hasn’t been as easy as they thought to spend time together—they’re both so _busy_ with work and classes. “We can do something else,” he offers.

“Well— _yeah,”_ Kurt pouts, extracting himself finally from the blanket. “That was kind of the idea since Rachel is out rehearsing and Santana is working the late shift at the diner . . .”

“Oh,” says Blaine. Then, wide-eyed, _“Oh!”_

Kurt just glances back, a small smile forming on his lips, then shrugs.

Sam’s sitting up now, legs firmly planted on the floor. “I can always, uh, just head back home—“

The other two speak, their voices overlapping: “No way, Sam.” “Well, if you insist . . .”

_“Kurt,_ ” says Blaine, who wonders how he’s going to figure this out, the scheduling of time—of different _kinds_ of time, for the different people in his life. Having Kurt around, available, for _real,_ still takes some getting used to.

“I’m _kidding,”_ says Kurt, who elbows Blaine. 

“No you’re not,” announces Sam, who suddenly bounces in his seat because he has an _idea._ “I’ll just turn up the volume here. You two go back in Kurt’s . . . curtain. Go behind the _curtain.”_ He hits Play and raises the volume then, and the room fills with guttural sounds and moans, with notes of both pleasure and pain, as guts spill while zombies groan and chew. 

All three boys are silent at that, Sam’s idea quite _dead_ now, and so together they resume their positions on the couch.

Only this time, Blaine lifts the edge of Kurt’s blanket and joins him underneath it in the dark.

 


	4. Sunday Recipe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday dinner at the loft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaine Advent prompt: "dirt"

Kurt leans back in his chair while across the table, Santana shares the latest dirt on Rami, the diner co-worker who was caught in a compromising position with Celeste, behind the closed door of the assistant manager’s office—or more accurately, _against_ it _._ Rachel looks at the pair from her seat at the piano, mouth agape, while Blaine sits next to her completely oblivious, his fingers dancing lightly across the keys. On the stove steak sizzles as Sam chops the tomatoes and scallions for the tacos they’ll soon eat. There’s a gasp and laughter and the staccato rhythm of metal striking the wood surface of the cutting board. Blaine’s playing seems to falter a moment before finally matching that beat, and soon Kurt and the girls add their unique notes, one at a time, as spice lingers in the air in more ways than one.


	5. Soundings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaine Advent prompt: "echo"

Blaine stands at the vanity, eyeing his reflection in the mirror. He flattens a stray hair, straightens his tie, and begins placing his things in the case Kurt had bought him for occasions like these, for _sleepovers_. He smiles at that, still not used to the fact that he can stay overnight with Kurt, really anytime now, as their schedules allow. 

Honestly, they haven’t had many—proms for sure, but other than that? Back when Mr. Hummel ran for office, there were a few times when Carole traveled alongside her husband. Kurt and Blaine had taken advantage of that. But so had Rachel and Finn, which made everything about that night and morning kind of weird, actually.

Blaine sighs, thinking of Finn, then dries off his toothbrush and places it in the case. He opens the door and practically knocks over Santana, who’s standing in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other resting on the doorjamb. 

She doesn’t look happy.

“Look, Frodo,” she begins, tapping her pointed fingernail on the wood frame. “It’s bad enough we have nothing but curtains for walls around here, but some of us actually _work_ for a living, and it would be nice to be able to get _ready_ for work. I can’t do that if you’ve got to spend an hour styling that atrocity on top of your head.”

The loft is so open and airy, and Santana’s booming voice echoes in the space. Behind him he hears water dripping from the vanity sink—the droplets fall at a slow pace, infrequent enough that they don’t seem to bother anyone living here. Holding his case in his hand he starts to push past her and says, “You could have just knocked, Santana.”

She doesn’t budge.

“You know,” she wonders aloud, “I thought for sure when Lady Hummel said you were finally moving out here, that you two would at least live together. Either he was going to move out, or _worse:_ you would move in. What’s the point of you just being here to give Bruce a night off?”

“Who’s Bruce?” Blaine asks. _Drip, drip._

She stops tapping. “It doesn’t matter. _Answer,”_ she orders. 

He sighs. “Well,” he says, “We just figured that we’re _young,_ and Kurt has already had a chance to live on his own here . . . so we decided I should have at least a little time to see what that’s like, too.” _Really,_ he thinks, while holding his best poker face, _I would’ve been happy to move in. Or for him to move out._

Santana rolls her eyes. “So in the meantime we have this,” she says, finally removing her hand from the doorframe and gesturing at Blaine. _Drip, drip, drip._

“Just let me get through, then,” he says, smiling, and she does. “I’ll talk to Kurt—“

“Oh, he’s gone by now,” she says. “Work, remember?” 

She closes the door behind her, and it’s quiet in the loft. Almost lonely. Blaine walks back to Kurt’s space, and finds that he’s definitely gone. There’s an apple next to Blaine’s bag on the bed, and a note which makes him smile. (“Sorry, this is breakfast—need to do grocery shopping later. Call me!”) It’s weird being here like this, with everyone simply going about their day. There’s no special occasion bringing friends and lovers together. It’s just Thursday. 

He bites into the apple noting how _loud_ it is in the empty loft, and Blaine is sort of horrified at the sound of his chewing. He wonders what else he doesn’t hear, or notice, or care about, when Kurt is around to pass the time. 

 


	6. Annotations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaine Advent prompt: "falter"

It was bound to happen sooner or later, in person instead of just over the phone. 

How long had it even _been_ since they’d actually fought about something, face to face?

Although, if Kurt thinks about it (and he does, he’s nursing a latte at the moment, just outside the NYADA library, a textbook lying open in front of him), their fights are about peeling layers away more than they are about winning arguments. He thinks of onions, of pinkish-brown paper skin that sometimes loosens easily with the light nudge of a fingernail. Other times, the skin clings stubbornly to the bulb’s core, and it’s only by gouging the flesh that it finally comes free, in tiny, sticky slivers. Today feels more like the latter.

 _It’s always about the layers,_ Kurt thinks. He remembers his own astonishment, back when he was still in high school, at Blaine’s drawing away from him as a way to prepare for a lonely senior year. Or more recently, at Blaine avoiding like the proverbial plague a simple phone call to say he couldn’t make it to New York for Pamela Lansbury’s first gig. 

He isn’t totally sure what today is about, but he recognizes some of the layers: the way some of the NYADA students seem to harbor hostility toward Blaine, the way his smile snaps into place once he notices Kurt is nearby. There are signs, Kurt knows. It’s the severity he always seems to miss. 

Hence the fight. Heated exchange. Whatever. Kurt tries to replay the morning’s events in his mind, when he’d let Blaine sleep in, his hair a curly mess peeking out from the covers. Kurt had gotten himself ready for classes, eaten breakfast, and come back to nudge Blaine awake. Once his fiancee had wiped the sleep from his eyes and realized where he was—the day, the time, what ridiculous club meetings filled up his planner—Kurt found himself being accused of things, from making Blaine late to never cleaning the coffee machine at his place, to being Carmen’s favorite.

Well, Kurt had had some things to say about that. 

And afterwards, they had parted and gone about their respective day. 

Kurt stuffs his textbook into his bag and walks back to the main hall, where he knows Blaine has just finished Piano. He nods at the people whose faces he knows, fingers crossed he doesn’t run into any Apples—they’ve all pretty much turned against him, at least for now. Alliances shift as easily as the skin on Joan Rivers’s face here. 

Is that what this is about, he wonders? Blaine finding his footing in a place where the floorboards constantly shift beneath him? He thinks about how often Blaine has had to start over: Dalton, McKinley, now here. Adapting should be routine at this point. Shouldn’t it?

As he nears the classroom he can make out his fiancee’s voice, soft and warm. He lingers outside the room, chances a peek in. Blaine’s seated at one of the baby grands, and the song he’s playing is familiar, even if the arrangement seems rather mournful and slow.

> _I try to discover_
> 
> _a little something to make me sweeter_

It’s perhaps a tad _dramatic_ , Kurt thinks, and if there was a lighter mood between them at the moment he’d eye roll the hell out of his lover. But Kurt knows that’s not what Blaine needs. 

> _And if I should falter,_
> 
> _would you open your arms out to me?_

“Oh, _Blaine,”_ is all Kurt can muster, his heart leaping suddenly, as he strides across the polished wood floor. Blaine lets Kurt see the uncertainly written on his face before his smile breaks, tentative and full of apology. Kurt smiles back, plops himself onto the bench, and scoots Blaine off center with his hips. He begins to play. It’s “Heart and Soul,” and Blaine joins in eagerly. It’s just the two of them again, and later Kurt knows they’ll do the work, they’ll use words and see where that gets them, and they’ll peel the layers back—even the physical ones—and get as close to the core as they’re willing to go.

 


	7. Catwalk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaine Advent prompt: "gift"

Blaine rolls open the loft door late one afternoon, causing Kurt to look up from his spot at the table, where he’d been passing the time with cards. Blaine’s got a look of _mischief_ about him—he’s got his hands curled around the door like he’s hiding something, and Kurt tilts his head, curious. 

His fiancee actually wiggles his eyebrows, then enters the loft, taking a spot just to the side of the entryway. When Blaine sweeps his arm as if to welcome someone (or something) inside, Kurt’s first response is, _Ooh, a surprise!_ and for some reason, _puppy?_

It’s no puppy.

It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s _Sam,_ but it’s no absolutely _not_ Sam. 

 _What are words again?_ Kurt wonders, and he’s vaguely aware he’s gaping. 

Because Sam has clearly been allowed to keep some of his runway things. His hair, which lately looks rather sloppy in Kurt’s opinion, is swept back off his face and up, and it’s just right and full of sheen, making his jaw seem more chiseled. 

He’s wearing Moschino, and Kurt smiles to himself because he owns a piece or two, but this ensemble Sam is wearing is electric: lightning bolts are _literally_ all over the slim-fit trousers, and the simple white shirt, black tie and excellently-tailored jacket are the perfect complement. The Sam from McKinley—the one who once wore gold lamé shorts—has _nothing_ on this Sam, who’s stunning and glorious.

Kurt’s now smiling dopily at the other boy, who still seems to be carrying himself as if he’s on the runway—he’s stern and more . . . _structured_. 

When Kurt finally glances over at Blaine he does a double-take, because Blaine is looking at his friend with pride, yes, but his fiancee is practically _swooning._ And seeing that is a gift, Kurt thinks—it’s another side of Blaine he doesn’t get to see, not from this vantage point. 

And it’s suddenly a lot warmer in the loft.

Kurt finally finds words again. “Sam . . . show us your catwalk. You know, if you don’t mind?”

Sam’s about to speak, but suddenly Blaine loudly  _shushes_ him, so he closes his mouth and turns, and walks across the floor not at all like Sam, and Kurt and Blaine stand there listening to the swish of the trousers as lightning strikes each corner of the loft.

 


	8. Skirmish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaine Advent prompt: "human"

There is one class that Kurt and Blaine are enrolled in together at NYADA, and Blaine still can’t believe that any of this—New York, _Kurt_ , any of it—is _real_. Most days, in fact, he thinks of his course schedule and finds himself chuckling out of joy. His _classes_. His classes are _delightful._ No more being asked to the chalkboard to show other students how to do computations, no more three-month studies of yarn. Everything now feels so _important_ , and it already seems like he could teach his own brother a thing or two.

The class he shares with Kurt is Stage Combat I. 

It’s Stage Combat II he knows Kurt is more anxious for—that’s the one involving weapons. Blaine is sure his lover would like nothing better than to surprise the class with his skill. Although, to be fair, as much as Blaine loves to watch Kurt twirl sai swords, he’s certain the course would be more about _fighting_ with the blades . . . 

The thought brings Blaine back to Combat I, back to this moment, where he and his partner (Kurt, natch), are attempting . . . a _brawl_.  

It’s the coolest thing, and Blaine _so_ wants to learn, but every time he readies his fists (because he _knows_ this, the feel of his body channeling its energy as he shifts his weight), Kurt readies a quip. 

“Hit me with your best shot,” is what he says this time, and what channels through Blaine—straight from heart to mouth—is laughter. “Seriously,” Kurt adds, laughing too. “Fire away.”

 _“Kurt,”_ says Blaine, again, giggling. “Come on. How are we going to do this on stage, ever?”

“I know,” Kurt says, shaking his head. “I just can’t help it.” He’s grinning ear to ear. “I can’t imagine even _pretend_ brawling with you.”

“So think of something,” Blaine offers. 

“Something . . . to help make it easier to fake punch you?” 

“Exactly!” Blaine watches as the other pairs around them work hard at their playfighting—some of the partnerships have even begun shoving each _other_ around, and soon it’s like a clichéd bar fight has erupted in the middle of the classroom. When one enterprising student lifts a chair to retaliate, the instructor yells, “Hold up, hold up! That chair’s _real!”_  

There’s a slight pause, then the fighting simply continues without the chair (which is clearly a Combat II topic anyway). 

When he finally looks back at Kurt, Blaine’s skin begins to prickle.

Because Kurt looks absolutely _pissed._

“Okay, let’s go, then,” is all he says before launching himself at Blaine, who has to think fast, so very _fast_ in order to turn his chin at just the right moment so as not to _actually_ get struck in the face. He backpedals, backpedals, and Kurt’s _furious_ and Blaine wonders if Human Kurt got replaced with some alien life form, and that’s when it hits him—Blaine knows what memory Kurt is channeling. 

“Kurt,” he says firmly. _“Stop it.”_

Kurt does, his gaze softening. He shrugs apologetically. “You said—“

“I know,” Blaine says quietly, then takes his lover’s hand.

And just like that it’s over, and then class itself is over too, and as they leave the room Blaine can only think of sai swords. He thinks of the way Kurt focuses as he spins them in his hands like batons, the way he controls the steel shimmering in the light—at once so dangerous and beautiful.


	9. Vantage Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaine Advent prompt: "ice"

Blaine can’t tell if people at the party are ignoring him because he’s unimportant, or because he’s doing a good job blending in with the ice sculptures. 

The three figures he’s standing next to are life-sized, and their stylish ice-clothing billows and swoops, frozen for a moment in time. Literally. Which would, you know, be the whole _point._

Because they’re made of ice.

As a matter of fact Blaine’s starting to wonder if he’s turning into one of his ice friends, because everything seems to be slowing down, like his brain is a giant icicle hanging from the eaves in winter, his thoughts trickling down sluggishly until they slow to a stop, unable to move any further.

But that could also just be the champagne talking. 

A little tap on his shoulder from behind startles him, but he’s so stuck in his thoughts that all he can do is shift his eyes.  

“Well, you almost had _me_ fooled,” Isabelle says, circling him and smiling, and Blaine wonders if she’s coddling him or just being polite. He’s only just met her, this woman Kurt has often called his fairy godmother. 

She’s warm and sweet, and Blaine says kindly, “Thank you. I mean—not for the compliment, I guess.” They both chuckle before Blaine adds, “But for allowing me to _be_ here at all. Kurt appreciates it too.”

Isabelle tilts her head and seems to appraise him, or maybe she’s just examining his suit, which has more sheen than he’s used to but definitely _fits_ well, and he’s thankful that Kurt dressed him for this gala so he at least blends in here. He’s mostly spent the night watching his fiancé from afar as he so deftly weaves in and out of conversations with guests, all of whom are part of the fashion world. Kurt’s _good,_ he’s really good, Blaine can tell how charmed and impressed others are with him.

She’s still looking at him fixedly, then suddenly seems to make a decision about something. Isabelle grasps his arm and tugs, drawing him away from the icy trio. “Come with me,” she says, and then leads him from the room.

He follows her up the grand staircase and onto a balcony, where they can view the entire party from up above. It’s quite beautiful, actually, the interplay of colors and textures as people move about the room, dressed in such finery. Blaine grasps the rail and scans for Kurt, finally locating him by the dessert table, where he stands next to an older man. Kurt’s clearly telling a story, gesticulating wildly, and Blaine can’t help but smile.

He looks back at Isabelle, who’s watching him again, and says, nodding in Kurt’s direction, “He’s telling that man about the time the glee club sang in the cafeteria.” He watches as Kurt holds up his hands, an invisible food tray his shield. “There was a huge food fight,” Blaine says. “The cleanup took two days.”

Isabelle nods. “That’s pretty good,” she says, and Blaine can hear a note of approval in her voice. “I think I’ve heard that one, myself.” 

They stand next to each other for a while, just watching, and sometimes laughing. "You're good for him" is all she says.

Soon after she leaves Blaine to his gazing, and quickly he spots the place he’d stood before, next to his glistening, frozen friends, and it’s funny how much more he can see from up here, how much difference a little distance can make.


	10. Set Design

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaine Advent prompt: "jigsaw"

Kurt enters the auditorium and can barely hear himself think with all the noise surrounding him, all the _swishes_ and _whirrs_ and _taps_ as the set for the fall play comes to life on stage. He wonders at the talent in the room—at how these aren’t just people recruited by friends of friends, or bribed to ensure the set gets built in time for opening night.

These people are _artists_. 

He takes his time meandering about, fascinated with the craft involved in making the stars of the production shine more brightly. He watches as NYADA students dart back and forth across the stage, immersed in their work, and as all of a sudden, their particular movements seem orchestrated, with waves of them separating like the parting of the Red Sea, only to reveal one Blaine Anderson—who’s about to power up a jigsaw.

The machine snarls to life and Kurt notices Blaine jolt slightly at the sound—he’s clearly deep in concentration (he’s even biting his tongue, Kurt can tell) as he traces whatever pattern he was given and carefully guides the saw. 

It’s probably the last thing Kurt had expected Blaine to be doing at NYADA, but the competition for roles is fierce. Krupke would be a _dream_ , Kurt muses, still standing at a distance. Blaine must hear what Kurt’s thinking, because he immediately looks up from his work, notices him, and smiles proudly. 

The jigsaw seems to have a mind of its own, though, so Kurt motions quickly, _Turn it off!_ while Blaine tries to correct its course as sawdust sprays from the blade. A young woman, clearly one of the lead designers, stomps across the floor toward a horrified Blaine in order to inspect the damage. 

Kurt pulls his phone from his pocket to text _How bad is it?_ then pauses before adding, _Make it up to you later?_ He watches as on stage, Blaine reacts to his vibrating phone—and once the designer walks off, to Kurt’s text. 

 _What do you have in mind?_ is the response that comes. Blaine looks up from his phone, safety goggles still on, clearly optimistic.

That’s a very good question, Kurt thinks, amidst all the clatter. _You’ll see,_ is all he writes, before turning and exiting the auditorium, a plan already forming in his mind. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before, just candles and flowers, but it’s enough to make their own production shine a little on this cool autumn night.


	11. Neon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaine Advent prompts: key, loft, message, neon, overture, and pulse! Can't believe I was able to even do this and have it make sense. Enjoy!

It’s not that they don’t have sex in the loft. Or that they don’t like to. 

It’s just awkward. Depending _._

They might find themselves nestled in each other’s arms, in their own space behind Kurt’s curtain. There in the dark, a faint strip of light beneath the curtain’s hem forms a perimeter—a faint reminder of who’s on the other side. 

That there _is_ another side. 

And in the dark they can tune things out, and tune _in_ to each other’s overtures, to a splayed hand softly drawn down the length of a torso until it meets the curve of a hip. Or a tight embrace, and the pull of skin where fingers grasp a broad back, where chin bones press tightly against a neck. 

These things are focal points. 

But the abrupt bark of girls’ laughter is the snap of a wire, and they snap too under the warm space they share under covers. They tense like cats caught unawares, frozen, wondering if others will hear the thrumming of pulses that seem so very _loud_ all of a sudden.

Sometimes they just nod off to sleep after that. 

Sometimes they try again, they start over, they try to get back—and then it’s about messages, about stimuli, and sometimes the brain listens. Sometimes it doesn’t.

Usually, they just go faster. Less kissing and touching, more grabbing. They need the release—they chase it. They fumble with the key ring, frantically trying the lock until it clicks. Eventually, it does.

They sigh, bodies finally quiet. In their sleepy state, not even the sounds of footsteps across the floorboards of the loft or the click of the bathroom door cause much of a reaction. Bedclothes are ruffled as tops and bottoms are found, and soon they’re wrapped up in each other’s arms again, content.

They can seal themselves off in this space, they can and _do._ Sparks are sparks. Even molecules trapped in a tube can find themselves aglow, clean and vibrant in the night, given the right conditions. 

 


	12. A Stitch in Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaine Advent prompts: "river," "stitch"

When Kurt thinks of himself and Blaine and high school, it’s his senior year more than any other that looms in his mind—because that was the year they’d spent the most time together.

So much _time._

Time spent after school on coffee dates, or sharing glances in the hall between classes. Time spent on movies and dinners, on mall trips and once in a while, parties. On bus rides to competitions and the rehearsals leading up to them. On the couch watching TV. On the bed, watching each other. 

Time seems different now. 

Blaine’s sitting at the loft piano, hunched over the keys, waiting, Kurt thinks, for inspiration. Kurt’s cleaning up after dinner, the clink of glassware and clatter of plates being put away the only noise in the apartment at the moment.

He folds the kitchen towels, then grabs _Vogue_ before plopping on the couch. And this is what’s new, he thinks—their being together, but not _doing_ anything together. Blaine has a big project due and classes tomorrow, while Kurt has neither. 

Kurt finds that he likes this, he likes when Blaine’s here as he is tonight, to really _work_. He tries not to hover, he tries to give Blaine space—but he also isn’t reading the magazine he’s holding either. Spying on Blaine is too interesting.

As Blaine begins playing again, Kurt watches his fiancé create, watches him hunt for the notes and combinations of sounds to complete the song. He knows Blaine’s been challenged at NYADA, and he marvels for a moment at the outcome. The music is lovely.

“Does it have words yet?” Kurt asks, still holding his magazine from his spot on the couch. “Is it more Sondheim or more Pink?” he chuckles.

“Huh?” asks a startled Blaine, who then smiles as if he’s just remembered where he was—and with whom. “Yeah, sort of. There’s a part that keeps playing in my head, but I can’t quite build around it yet, if that makes sense?” He looks back down at the keys and plays the melody, so sweet and slow. “Most of the music’s already formed now, I think. I’m just not sure . . .” he says, before looking back down at the keys. 

Now Kurt senses the air tinged with something—and contemplates that for his fiancé, who has so often expressed himself through _other_ people’s songs, the prospect of being able to say what he wants through his very _own_ music . . . Well, that could be intimidating, he thinks.

Kurt puts the _Vogue_ down and sits up.

Blaine begins with what Kurt assumes is the opening and first verse—it’s lovely and calming, and the notes resonate across the open space of the loft. Then Blaine’s warm voice joins in:

> _If I followed that river_
> 
> _as far as it would go,_
> 
> _all the way out to sea—_
> 
> _If I followed that river_
> 
> _(the river being you)_
> 
> _I think it would carry me . . ._

Then Blaine stops, his fingers still resting on the keys. When he meets Kurt’s eyes, there’s hesitation there, and it feels as if this moment of doing nothing together has suddenly become one of doing _something_. But what? 

“What’s next?” Kurt asks, shrugging. “Um—where does the river carry you?” 

“That’s what I don’t know,” Blaine says quietly. He pauses for a moment before adding, “Probably, it would depend on where _you_ were going.”

 _Okay, that is a load of crap,_ thinks Kurt, wondering why _this_ is back again, but he takes a breath before he speaks—because what is this all about, anyway? He’s reminded of Blaine mooning over Dr. Ross. He’s reminded of a _Being Bobby Brown_ marathon from a long time ago, and _I changed my whole life to be with you._    

 _You’re scared,_ Kurt thinks. _Also, you’re wrong._

So Kurt tries to find the words to fit Blaine’s metaphor. “But the river doesn’t just drag you along wherever it wants—it doesn’t have to be that way, Blaine.” Sighing, he explains, “What if the river is very supportive—?”

“A supportive river?” Blaine scrunches his eyebrows.

“Shush. It’s _very_ supportive, and isn’t guiding as much as giving you a place to float . . . your boat.” Kurt covers his face, laughing. “I’m sorry, I suck at this,” he says, but he gets up and walks to the piano bench. He takes Blaine’s hands in his and adds, more seriously now, “It’s _your_ journey. And I have _mine_ , too. But maybe we can just, be there for each other and help each other when we can?”

“So we both make it?” Blaine asks, hopeful.

“Yeah, something like that,” Kurt says, pulling Blaine into his arms, wondering at how much of their time these days is about observing instead of doing, about watching and learning, about noting the words and sounds of each other’s language.


	13. After Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaine Advent prompts: torch, us, vodka, whisper, yes

"This isn't how I expected things to go," says Blaine. They're at the after-party for the fall play, and he and Kurt have just been handed shots of vodka. They clink rims (the _Here's to us_  implicit in the gaze they share), down the drinks, then set the glasses on the counter, both of them sputtering as they feel the effects of the booze.

"I guess we have to get used to it," Kurt muses, before adding, "not the vodka—well, that too—but the bad reviews. I mean, your play is no _Turn off the Dark_ or anything—"

"It's _worse_ , and that's really saying something. I just want to torch the set," Blaine pouts. "What really sucks is that we have to go back out there and do it all again _tomorrow_ night!"

Both boys are quiet for a while as they weave through the mass of people lining the hallway and look for a place to stake out as theirs in the crowded apartment.

They end up alone, on the fire escape, the sounds of the bustling city rising up from below.

They listen.

After a while, Kurt leans close to Blaine and whispers in his ear, "The last time I was on a fire escape was Thanksgiving, a year ago."

"Sectionals," Blaine says, out loud. "You were talking to me again." The look he gives Kurt is pensive. Then Blaine grasps the railing, watching cars make their way through traffic. "That wasn't what I expected to happen either," he says, before turning to Kurt and smiling. "That was a _good_ surprise."

Kurt nods, smiling too. "I dunno. I think you and I will _always_ defy expectations, one way or another."

"Yes," Blaine says, before leaning in to surprise Kurt with a kiss. "Can we leave now?" he asks. 

"Thought you'd never ask," says Kurt, who leads him back into the press and pull of bodies, alive and thrumming with energy.

 

 


End file.
